Where the Heart Leads (10 page)

A loud electronic horn blared as they emerged from the office, and Moira quailed as a tsunami of students burst into the hall, high-fiving each other, yelling back and forth, and banging locker doors. It was like a crowd scene from
Ben-Hur
.

Maybe real high school wasn't so great after all. She could never have survived in this melee. The sound was ear shattering, and there were just plain too many people moving around. She'd probably have ended up trampled on the floor if she were on her own, but Mr. Hurst led with his shoulder and cleared a way for her, then cut smartly into a side hall, hung a quick left, and walked her into a classroom.

Moira followed in his wake, totally confused by the voyage, but relieved that they'd finally reached land.

The rest was a piece of cake, as she reported to Astrid at dinner. “Mr. Hurst stayed in the room for about fifteen minutes, then left me on my own. The classes all went well, as far as I could tell. Donna Sue is putting on
Hedda Gabler
this spring—more power to her—and some of the students tried to impress me with their deep understanding of Ibsen's motivations and themes. A few others wanted to let me know they were destined for much better things than
The Clancy Family
, but no one gave me any real trouble. I tried to talk to them about preparing for a career in entertainment, but no one seemed interested, so I switched to funny stories about my own career. They loved the one about how I was all set to play George Clooney's daughter until the director decided he should have a son instead.”

Her only real hitch had come at the end of the day when she was running out of steam and a purple-haired girl at the back of the class asked her what it was like to be married to Colin Sanger.

“That part of my life is over,” she'd said, pasting a strained smile on her face to indicate fortitude in the face of tragic adversity. “That door has closed.”

But there was always the possibility that it might open again when she least expected it. And that's another reason she couldn't get seriously involved with Rafe. He was too good a person to get pulled down into her sewer.

Moira hummed the happy version of “Street Song” as she drove into town for the evening rehearsals.

The midweek practices had gone well. The leads had their songs down pat and were interacting in character onstage—except for Phillip Schoenfeldt, of course. What was wrong with him? He was still as standoffish as ever in his scenes with Micaela, and it wasn't as if they had to roll about naked on the floor. All he had to do was give her a couple of hugs and one brief close-mouthed kiss. But the way Phil was keeping his distance from Micaela, no one was going to believe he even liked her, much less be willing to sacrifice his most valued possession to buy her a Christmas present.

Moira parked her car in the dance studio's side lot and hurried inside to get warm. Her thin T-shirt and blue jean jacket weren't cutting it—she had to get herself a real live winter coat.

The first thing she noticed when she came through the door was that the Fontaines had taped a grid on the floor of one of their front areas. Her eyes opened wide.

“Those are the museum stage measurements you've taped off!”

Fleurette hunched in on herself as if she'd been beaten, and Xandra's voice snapped with venom. “The grid will help the children learn the choreography in relation to the auditorium, and we're
not
going to pull the tape up!”

Moira's mouth dropped open. Why did Xandra think she'd want them to pull up the tape? She schooled her own voice to a level tone. “I like the grid. It's a wonderful idea.”

Xandra rewarded her with a quick, nervous smile and a jerky nod while Fleurette positively beamed.

What was going on with those two?

Whatever, she'd have to figure it out later.

Moira looked around. Everyone seemed to have arrived so she'd better take roll. There were already three dropouts, bringing them down to eighteen children, but ten were all she really needed for the show—if they were the right ten, like the five Loughlin kids and—well—Wendy.

Wendy Nixon, who had stage presence, an unnatural poise, and took directions far too well. Moira felt sorry for her, but she also had to foil all of her mother's attempts to teach her how to steal the show.

As soon as the kids' rehearsal ended, Moira was on her way to the museum for the adult rehearsal. Her teeth chattered like the proverbial castanets as she waited for the car heater to warm up. Who would guess it ever got this cold in Central Texas? Bosque Bend was just a few miles north of Waco, which didn't exactly put it in the arctic zone.

She parked as near as she could get to the museum's front door and dashed across the street like a ground squirrel. It was either that or freeze to death.

Thank goodness the night custodian was at the door so she didn't have to pause and fumble with her ice-cold keys. She hurried up the stairs and into the auditorium, which was almost too warm.

The principals began arriving. First Billie Joe, then Phil and Sergio. A few minutes later Micaela, wrapped in a warm-looking wool coat, walked in with her mother. Next came Rafe, who gave her a smile that was more than a greeting. She dug her fingernails into her palms. She'd gone four whole days without seeing him.

Vashti called Rafe up front, and Moira watched him saunter down the aisle. That loose cowboy lope was an automatic turn on.

He's just another cast member,
she told herself.
Just another cast member.
But the heat slithering through her told her otherwise.

Taking a ballpoint from behind her ear, she turned to a new page in her notepad and tried to be objective as Vashti ran Rafe through a vocal warm-up and then made sure he had “Street Song” down.

Now it was Billie Joe's turn. The big woman shifted her weight from foot to foot as she walked slowly and carefully up the steps. Definitely, Billie Joe should not be dancing down the stage steps in the aisle scene in the second act.

Moira looked up as someone edged down her row.
Rafe.
He took a seat beside her, and his hand moved across the arm separating their seats so the tips of his fingers rested, as if by accident, on her thigh.

Every cell in her body caught fire.

He knew what he was doing, and it wasn't fair when she was trying to concentrate on Billie Joe's performance. She dropped her notepad in her portfolio as an excuse to move her leg away from his hand.

Sergio took his turn in the hot seat. Next up was Phil, then Micaela. Sergio was singing into the role now, Phil's delivery was musically impeccable and emotionally unbelievable, and Micaela floated effortlessly through every one of her songs.

Halfway through “Della's Prayer,” Moira felt Rafe drape his hand on her leg again, but this time, she didn't drop her notebook in her portfolio. There was no use denying it—she liked him to touch her.

It's a normal physical phenomenon,
she told herself.
He's a hunk and you're hungry. Maybe it's a sign of sexual healing. Maybe you'll even be normal one of these days—whatever “normal” is.

Sergio lifted his hand in the direction of the door, and Moira looked around to see Desdemona and her beau coming into the auditorium. The ballerina was carrying a dripping umbrella, and Buck's longish hair was slick with rainwater.

What was it with autumn in Texas? The sky had been cold but clear when she'd driven into town.

She glanced at Buck and Desdemona as they took seats side by side in the front row. Odd, she'd never seen the two of them hold hands or even exchange more than a few words with each other. In fact, she'd wondered if Buck
could
talk. He certainly couldn't sing. After Vashti had tried him out, she'd taken Moira aside and suggested the football hero be given a nonsinging role, maybe as a silent bobby strolling in the background behind Rafe.

Sergio hopped down from the stage, raised his hand at Moira in silent farewell, and walked out between his sister and her boyfriend. Apparently they'd dropped by just to give him a ride home.

That was it for the evening. Moira snapped her portfolio shut, and Vashti packed up her music. “I have a few things I need to talk to you about, but I'll leave it till tomorrow. Micaela and I have to get home as quick as we can to take care of Carmen's little boy,” she explained. “She's playing at the Bosque Club tonight.”

Moira glanced around the empty auditorium to make sure no one had left anything behind, then walked up the aisle with Rafe and turned out the lights. They went down the dark stairs and stopped at the front door for her to adjust the automatic lock. She licked her lips and gave him a shy smile.

“Thank you for the flowers. I've always liked daffodils.”

His arms slipped around her, and he drew her gently toward himself, then kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose.

“I've missed you, darlin'.”

The hard walls and the empty hall gave his voice a familiar echo. He sounded like Colin.

Moira stopped breathing, then wiped her hand down the side of his denim jeans and slumped against his shoulder in relief.

She was with Rafe, Big Red, Rafe of the sparkling eyes, not with Colin, who preferred leather.

An oversized belt buckle jabbed her in the ribs and she suppressed a nervous giggle.
Yeah, for sure, she was with Rafe.

His lips explored her eyelids, the shape of her ear, and the curve of her cheek, slowly, as if learning her inch by inch, and she arched herself up against him. Her pulse fluttered.
Damn, she was a goner.

She'd thought she'd never come alive again, had guarded herself against it. But this long, tall, drawling cowboy had stirred a spark in her the first time she met him. A spark that had become a flame.

Rising up on her toes, she cradled his jaw in her hands, brought his head down to her level, and kissed his lips. Her palms were excited by the stubble of his nighttime beard, and she closed her eyes to intensify the sensation.

He flitted a thousand baby kisses on her mouth, then moved down her throat. His hand stroked her arm up and down, and she melted against him.

Rafe. Big Red.

The darkness around them was inhabited by malevolent spirits, but she knew she was safe with this good man.

His tongue teased her lips, and she opened them to him. He explored the sensitive skins above her teeth, and the flame inside her turned into a blazing fire. That did it. She couldn't help it—she was his for the taking.

Rafe sent a hand up under the back of her T-shirt and unhooked her bra. He'd been wanting to get hold of these sweet little mounds ever since she walked into the front room of the Lynnwood house with Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles stretched across them. He turned her in his arms to caress their baby-soft undersides and play with her tightening nipples.

Her breath came faster, and she moved her butt against him.

Damn. His little soldier was a firecracker.

He lifted the loose shirt off over her head and tossed it onto the concrete bench beside the door, then pulled her against him so she would feel his hardness against the small of her back as his mouth explored the tender skin behind her ears, then down the side of her throat.

Moira arched and moaned as Rafe's fingers returned to her burning nipples again, buffing them into full erection. She was panting for air, her skin was burning, and her body had gone weightless. She was heading toward oblivion and didn't know how to stop herself.

Suddenly her knees buckled, and she backed against the museum door for support. Rafe held her as she shook like a leaf and gasped for air.

The heat rose in her cheeks, and she crossed her arms to cover her breasts. Her head moved back and forth in apology.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to.”

For a second, Rafe didn't understand. Then he did. Moira had ignited and taken off all by herself. He was in awe.

He gathered her against himself and smoothed her hair. “You're beautiful, so beautiful.”

As they crossed the street, the full moon mirrored itself in the puddles and wet pavement, lighting their way.

Moira kept her distance from Rafe. Her shirt was back on her now—not inside out, she hoped—and she was down to earth again, but she wasn't sure she could control herself if he touched her again.

God, she had really done it—spontaneous combustion—a female premature climax.

Why? Maybe because she was drained, operating on empty, that Rafe caught her in a weak moment. But more likely because something deep inside her had responded to him from the moment he nearly ran her down in the hall.

Rafe had been very gentlemanly about the situation, holding her until she could stand on her own, helping her get her shirt back on, even complimenting her on her response, but she was still embarrassed.

They reached her car, and she glanced across the parking lot toward the floodlight. Apparently the tobacco brotherhood had packed it in for the night, so she and Rafe were all alone.

He took her in his arms as she pressed the control to unlock her car door and gave her one of his patented sweetheart kisses, then exhaled roughly in frustration and backed away.

His voice was gruff.

“I'd ask you out to the ranch again, but Delilah and I are gonna be gone all weekend. My sister is havin' a gatherin' of the clan in Austin to announce she's runnin' for the state Senate, and when TexAnn cracks the whip, we all jump.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, which seemed to be his thing.

“But I'll be back on Monday—would you be free for lunch? Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday are Daddy time, but I'd sure like it if you'd join Delilah and me on Friday for the Pumpkin Party on the square. She's goin' to a sleepover at her second cousin's house afterward, so I thought maybe you and I could round out the evenin' with an hour or two at Good Times. You'll get to see Omar dressed like Dracula and singin' Elvis.”

Her voice was a breathless croak. “Sounds great.”

Maybe they could ignore what had happened in the museum lobby and start the relationship over again. The Pumpkin Party would be a wholesome, family-type outing, and Good Times would be a lot of fun. Omar rigged out in a black cape and fly-away collar was a sight she didn't want to miss.

Rafe kissed her again and, keeping an arm around her, ran a finger down the slope of her breast, then looked at her.

“Any reaction?”

She managed to laugh. “It was difficult, but I kept myself under control.”

His voice deepened into a harsh whisper that sent her senses spinning.

“I like it better when you let go.”

Saturday morning, Moira got up bright and early; threw on a shirt, a sweater, and her blue jean jacket; then drove to the museum to rehearse the adult chorus and block out the “Street Song” scene. Xandra and Fleurette were there to explain the choreography, and they gave her exactly what she'd asked for—a fast-paced opening, like the first scene of
Guys and Dolls
, that would slow down when Phil and Micaela entered the scene.

After lunch, she paid bills, washed clothes, and attended a dog-training seminar with Astrid, then, as supper cooked, called Gram to catch up on the news, none of which was particularly earth shaking. The neighbors had bought a hybrid car, her brother was getting along well in his new school, and his tuition installment was due. But, as she'd told Gram, there was nothing she could do about the tuition until she got her first paycheck.

Astrid took Ivanhoe for a stroll around the cul-de-sac while Moira turned on the television and tried to watch a rerun of
Dr. Who
saving the world again, but couldn't make herself follow the plot. All she'd been able to think about since Friday was Rafe.

Damnit.
Not being able to see him all weekend had thrown her own personal universe for a loop. In just one week, Big Red had become far too important to her life.

No question about it—she and Big Red were going to wind up in bed together. He was still in love with Beth, of course, and she—well, she was still in hate with Colin, but they could enjoy each other for a while. That way he could keep his wife's memory alive, and she could keep her husband's secrets dead and buried.

Her phone rang. It was Johnny Blue. She frowned and checked her watch. The last she'd heard, Johnny was on location in England. If it was seven fifteen in the evening here, that meant it was one fifteen in the morning over there.

“Hey, Moira, how ya d-doing? Those Texans treating you all right? Need ol' Uncle Johnny to c-come to town and set them sh-straight?”

Oh God. Johnny was either drunk or high. Maybe a couple of six-packs, maybe a toke or two—or more. He'd never been into the hard stuff, but there was always a first time.

She put a smile in her voice. “I'll take a rain check on your visit, Johnny.”
Please don't come to Bosque Bend and screw everything up for me.
“You know how it is—I'm trying to put a show together and you'd be a total distraction. The women would be following you around like a pack of bloodhounds.”

She had a special bond with Johnny Blue, probably because she was the only actress he'd ever worked with who hadn't fallen for him, or maybe because they'd been fellow travelers, kids who'd raised themselves in the showbiz jungle. She'd spent most of her childhood on sets, using Pasadena as a crash pad, while he'd lived in the Beverly Hills mansion of his producer father and his succession of wives and mistresses. Both of them had a hunger for permanence and stability.

But he was the last person she needed to show up while she was trying to put together a show. To put together a relationship with Rafe. Trying to put together her life.

Johnny laughed. “That's the n-nicest turndown I've ever gotten, girl. Hey, the McAllister guy that Pen Swaim had me talk to—is he taking c-care of you and your sister? That house t-turn out okay?”

“The house is great, Johnny. It even has indoor plumbing.”

She'd thought she'd found her permanence and stability with Colin, but the price was more than she'd bargained for. Johnny had thought he'd found his when he cracked the glass ceiling of his father's world, first on television, then in movies, but it had plunged him into a lifestyle that wasn't going to have a happy ending.

Johnny snorted out a laugh. “I'll put off my trip then, but g-gotta come down to Texas sometime, maybe after this gig wraps up. Just inherited a house from m-my aunt and uncle in Austin. Thought maybe I'd hibernate in it for a while and g-get my head on s-straight.”

Yeah, she'd heard that one before. She loved John Keller Blue like a brother, but he was a lost cause.

Monday, at last. Rafe would be back in town.

Moira lay in bed drowsing and making up stories in her head. This time around,
she
wanted to be the heroine, the girl who got the guy.

A car honked in front of the house and Astrid called out a good-bye as she flew through the door. Moira slid reluctantly out of bed, put on a warm robe, and went into the kitchen to make breakfast so Ivanhoe, who didn't seem to understand about daydreaming, wouldn't come in to fetch her.

She had two whole hours to get ready for her lunch date with Rafe. Predictions were that the cold weather would lift today, which meant she could wear that Zulily zigzag dress.

After finishing her cereal and putting the bowl down for Ivanhoe to lap up the remaining milk, she took a leisurely bath, washed her hair, and set out her clothes. Oops, she'd forgotten how short the skirt was—the butterfly shoes wouldn't work. She'd have to wear high-heeled boots instead, and she'd better dig a pair of tights out of her drawer or a playful breeze would give the citizens of Bosque Bend a show that the theater guild wasn't paying her for.

She held the dress up in front of herself in the mirror.

Was it too hippy-dippy for her for the rehearsal tonight? She didn't want to have to come home and change after lunch.

She was feeling adventurous today, and Bosque Bend would have to take her as she was.

She picked up her portfolio and hit the road.

The temperature was in the seventies, the sky was studded with happy-looking clouds, the hum of the road was as relaxing as a good yoga session, and the refrain of “Della's Prayer” echoed in the corridors of her mind.

It was truly her lucky day—there was a parking space available in front of the jewelry store. Moira's heart pounded as she walked up the narrow flight of stairs to Rafe's office. She was excited and apprehensive at the same time. He'd played it off, but what happened in the museum lobby was downright freaky.

She walked through the open door of the office. It was Friday afternoon so Sissy wasn't there, but where was Rafe?

Something clanged in the inner office, and Rafe's voice cracked with anger. “Cut it out, you jerk-ass motherfucking piece of shit!”

Moira walked to the door of Rafe's private sanctum.

“Uh, having problems?”

Rafe turned around.

Take a deep breath, cowboy. Smile and pretend to be calm and in control of yourself, even though those black tights and tall boots are making you feel anything but.

He made a gesture of apology. “Sorry about that, darlin'. You're safe. I'm not psychotic—but the photocopier is.” He switched the system off. “We always give cast members twenty advertising flyers to pass on to their friends and relatives, and I wanted to have a stack of copies ready to show you, but I can't get the damn machine to work.” He lifted the master from the tray and handed it to her. “It's probably better that you see the thing first anyway, before I print it out. Let me know if there's anything I should change.”

Moira put her portfolio down on his desk and studied the page.

She curled her lower lip in.

“I like the colors, the deep green and deep red against the snow-white background. Christmas colors for a Christmas play, of course, but they show against each other too. And when they overlap, like where you have the red lettering outlined in green, they get darker.”

“That's the color wheel at work. Red and green make brown.”

She lifted her eyes, those almond-shaped eyes, and he could feel himself hardening. Damn—he wished he'd worn boxers.

“The comb you put in the girl's hair is charming,
But…
”

A bucket of cold water splashed over him.

Moira pointed to the large font across the top of the page. “But I'm uncomfortable with my name being in such a prominent position. What about Pen and Vashti?”

“Pen and Vashti are home folks. Everyone's accustomed to them pulling rabbits out of hats, but you're the new girl in town, the big attraction. Anyway, from what I've heard, Judy Schoenfeldt is writing the two of them up in the playbill like Shakespeare and Mozart.”

Although he damn well knew that no matter what Judy said, Bosque Bend would still think of Pen as the weird guy who had a telescope in his tower room to keep track of his neighbors, and of Vashti as that crazy woman who looked like she'd just dropped in from Oz.

Moira laughed and handed the flyer back to him, then indicated the wall opposite his desk, the one layered with sheets of butter-yellow paper. “Tell me what's going on here.” A smile hovered at the corners of her lips.

Those sweet, kissable lips.

He moved closer, not quite touching her. “My projects. My plans aren't very far along on the rest of the block, so I'll show you what I'm working on for the interior of the Huaco.” His arm brushed the side of her breast as he reached up to lift one of the larger pieces of tracing paper off the wall, but she didn't move away.

So far, so good.

He laid the sketch out on his desk and let his leg nudge her hip as she leaned over to look at his plans.

“Josie's already moved out so I grabbed a sledgehammer this mornin' and broke through the back door—it had been Sheetrocked over for years—to get a good look at the theater itself. It's in a lot better shape than I thought. The curtain is in shreds, of course, and the buildin's infested with rats, but the roof looks like it's in good shape, and there's some nice art deco work on top of the proscenium.”

He put an arm loosely around her waist, as if positioning her so she could see the plan better.

“But I've got to find out what kind of room there is backstage. Not much, as I remember—Travis and I used to perform at the Huaco's kiddie talent shows every Saturday morning, and we got to know the place pretty well.”

He drew her a little closer to his side.

“I'll probably get rid of a couple of rows of seats and build an apron out to extend the stage forward.”

“How many seats would that leave us?” Moira's voice came out a little breathless, as if he was getting to her.

“About three hundred, including the balcony. Of course, they'll all have to be refurbished.”

“Three hundred? That's a lot smaller than the museum auditorium—only half the size.”

“The museum auditorium has never worked that well for us—Bosque Bend doesn't have enough theatergoers to fill up anything but the center block, so we've been ropin' off the seats outside aisles to compact the audience.”

He moved his hand up her back and stroked her arm.

Slowly.

Then he turned her toward him. Her pupils were dilated, and she was sending out sparks. She'd exploded for him like a powder keg last Friday, and he wanted more of the same, but this time, he wanted in on it.

He took her into his arms, and she moved her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.